And Then
by TheColdMachine
Summary: You can't split the world three ways. Rated for language and content. PostOpera Previously 'Taking Over'
1. THREE

They have names for this sort of thing.

Murder is the most appropriate, he thinks. The term collateral damage could even be used. Regicide too, depending on how you looked at it. She'd thought of herself as a goddamn queen, just like their father, so yeah, that word sounded good. But it made him sound bad. And he wasn't bad, not really.

The sight of the dead body isn't what bothers him as he sits there. Dead bodies, no big. Luigi's used to them.

They have names for this sort of thing: the way he smiles as his eyes return to his knife. It's still stuck in her guts. A part of him, in her. They have names for that too.

He still can't think of the right word, and angrily slams his fist down on the desk. Fuck, it was right there, dancing on the edge of his teeth, but it won't fall out of his mouth. The eldest Largo snorts, looking at the blood dripping off the table. Drip drip drip fuck why can't he remember the word? There's fratricide, so maybe he could call this sororicide or something. But that doesn't have the right ring to it.

Eyes back on the bleeding cadaver, he pauses, thinking maybe the word will come if he waits. She looks as disgusting as ever. Her skin is white. Not alabaster, not ebony, but pure white. On wallpaper it would look nice. On her it looks putrid. He sneers a little. At least he'd only replaced a few organs. She'd gone all out, wasting _his _money on new everythings.

There's a twinge of something there, as he looks at her. She hadn't always been like this, this patchwork marionette. He's the oldest, and he can remember the time when she was something else. The word's still not there, not quite.

Slaughter, maybe. That's what happened to pigs and cows and chickens, wasn't it? So it fit. But it wasn't the word he was looking for.

When he grabs the knife, it doesn't come out at first, and he tugs it again. But it's lodged in the bone, and he sits there for a long minute, looking stupid as he hangs off of the handle. But he's noticed something, and he doesn't care how he looks because he's starting to remember the word as he looks at her sprawled remains. They have names for this sort of thing, words like realization, like epiphany.

Pale skin, pale, perfect skin.

His knife embedded in her sternum like a ship's mast, him hanging off like the sail.

The betrayal scrawled across her doll's face.

In death, she's perfectly flawed, and he wonders if maybe he's gone too far.

Too late to tell now.

Deicide.

Fuck, that's the word, isn't it?


	2. TWO

It's louder than she expects. The gunshot, that is. She drops the weapon in surprise, and it hits the floor the same time he does. Bits and pieces of his face have already hit the wall, and cling to the cement as she eyes them. No more leering to put with. She smiles.

And maybe she shouldn't, but she laughs a little. No more pawing whenever she so much as blinked. And all solved with one big loud boom. But it's still loud, and she thinks maybe it shouldn't still be loud, so she laughs louder. Her audience, bits of flesh hanging off the walls, is silent, and slowly she falls quiet too.

Why isn't anybody clapping? She just put on the best goddamn show in her life. Amber huffs in annoyance. Leaning down, she picks up the double barrel and throws it over one shoulder. It hits the exposed flesh of her shoulder, and it's still warm.

Ignoring what's left of her brother, Amber takes a moment to examine the room. There's a mirror on the cabinet, and when she knocks it off it hits the floor and shatters louder than she expects. There are more mirrors but she doesn't bother with them. (No more mirrors). Seven years' bad luck was enough. She pauses to glance at herself in one of the shards. Maybe she could get some new cheeks or something, a sort of celebration.

The closet is monstrous, and she passes it by. Probably full of ascots and the faces of dead sluts. Maybe other parts too, but she's not really that curious. So she leans down over the body. She never really realized how much damage a shotgun could do. It had really made a mess of his face. She smiles as she looks at the mess it made of Pavi's face, mask and flesh ripped to shreds and impossible to tell apart. No more faceless bodies falling out of the building's various nooks and crannies.

She laughs again, can't help it. It all feels surreal as she stands up, facing the flesh-stained walls. Feels like if she turned around, he'd be there fawning over his reflection or trying to slide his hands where they didn't belong. But no, no more of that. No more ridiculous Italian accent.

The smile fades a little, and she throws the heavy gun aside and backs up slowly. Amber knows what this means: it's just one more rung on the corporate ladder Right?. But she can't help but think if no more Pavi is such a good thing after all. The room is quiet as the gun slides to a halt by the corpse, and the silence is louder than she expects.


	3. ONE

'An accident,' they would say. 'He will be dearly missed,' they'd lie.

A relief, really. One less competitor for the GENECo fortune. You can't tell it from looking at him, but he's smirking under that mask. A smug little smirk for the Pavi. His eyes glitter as they dart from his mirror, looking briefly at the small vial on his desk.

It's really an ugly little thing, brown glass half-covered by a skull-and-crossbones label with a dirty old rubber stopper. This is out of context. In context, in Pavi's mind, it's the most perfect, beautiful thing on this whole fucking planet besides himself.

An accident, because nobody was stupid enough to try and kill Luigi Largo.

His gaze turns back to the mirror, and he tilts it a little so he can see the open door, see the hallway. The GENtern is still waiting by the elevator, a needle in hand. She's got enough poison in her hand to take down all three Largos twice over, but that's not the deal.

An accident, because nobody was suicidal enough to try and kill Luigi Largo

Tomorrow, half of his problems will be solved.

The elevator dings and she leaves seconds later, and now it's just him and his reflection. An accident, because he was just too beautiful to be a killer. Because he, the only one with a material motive, would be busy tomorrow. Because murder wasn't his thing. That makes Pavi chuckle. Call him a rapist, a robber, a nuisance—not a murderer.

An accident, because nobody died of heart attacks any more, and because that's what it would say on the death certificate. He turns his eyes up to the wall. Maybe he could frame a copy.

The elevator dings again, and he turns the mirror again. Ah. The other half of his problems.

And he ignores the bitch, because it's what will annoy her the most. Besides, his plan is flawless and he just wants to sit and bask in his own magnificence for a while.

An accident, on his part, because Amber wasn't about to let that happen.


	4. And then there were none

Well, I took a while to post this because I was trying to decide between two epilogues: one from the viewpoint of Pavi's GENtern, the other from Shiloh. I'm not really the deciding type, so Iwent for both ^^ Tell me what you think.

& & &

She's quiet because making a noise—any noise—would be reason enough for Luigi to gut her.

She's quiet because that was the deal, and because she doesn't want to let Pavi down.

Some would call it devotion. Some would call it sick. There's a name for it, she's sure, but she really doesn't give a fuck. She wasn't going to back out of a pact just because the other person in it happened to be living in a dirt room. And there's a glint of insanity in her eyes as she opens the door, but you wouldn't see it because of the red GENtern mask.

He's asleep. According to the tabloids, he's mourning in private. Because he's distraught over the deaths of his siblings.

She's quiet, but she really wants to laugh at that.

& & &

"A blessing," because they were dead.

Like she'd inherited the whole goddamn planet. Or what was left of it, anyways.

After arresting Luigi's murderer, a new search had begun. Everybody's looking for her now. Looking for Shiloh, the little girl who had been lost from the start. And if she didn't want to be found? Nobody would ask because nobody would care. GENECo needed a saviour, like the world needed a saviour, like everybody needed a saviour. Except for her, apparently.

Screw that.

When she'd heard the news she'd smiled. They were dead. Everybody was dead, except maybe for the Graverobber. But the rest, they were all dead. Every one who'd made her life what it was. What it wasn't.

Nathan.

Mag.

Even Rotti.

They had all seemed to know what her future held, but it was too late to ask them. And, she thinks, even if she could ask them now, she wouldn't. She wouldn't be able to bear the disappointment.

_Look what I've become_. She's eying a small mirror. She still looks the same. Two years older, sure, but Shiloh's still the lost little girl.

Two years in hiding. Old habits died hard, and hiding was what she did best.

They'd all be disappointed.

She wouldn't blame them.

She'd be too busy running.


End file.
